


Admission

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera should have known Yamamoto listening to him this long was too good to be true." Yamamoto is unusually quiet on the phone with Gokudera and Gokudera calls him out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Gokudera should have known Yamamoto listening to him this long was too good to be true.

He’s been talking into the phone for almost ten minutes without a word from the other boy. It’s an unusual quiet, even if Yamamoto has proven far more patient with Gokudera’s over-practiced arguments on the proof of alien life than anyone else the other boy has yet met. He usually has something to say, a laugh of surprise at a particular point or a hum of confusion when Gokudera starts in on the mathematics, or a question or a comment or  _something_  to invariably throw off Gokudera’s chain of reasoning and send him into the ever-futile attempt to pick a fight over the phone. It’s strange that the other boy is so quiet today, with only the steady pace of his breathing to say he’s still on the line at all; Gokudera thinks at first maybe he’s fallen asleep, but when he cuts himself off to snap, “Are you asleep?” Yamamoto says “No” so fast as to leave no room for suspicion even in the shadows of Gokudera’s mind. So he keeps talking, confused but faintly pleased, willing to argue his point indefinitely as long as he has a willing audience.

He’s just starting in a recitation of the most recent sightings when Yamamoto makes a sound, a funny breathless catch of air so faint Gokudera thinks at first he’s imagining it. It still slows the pace of his words, lowers the enthusiastic tone of his voice, brings his attention away from his own words so he can zero in instead on the pace of the other boy’s breathing. It’s still audible, too fast to fit into the shape of sleep that Gokudera keeps expecting, but there’s something else under it, a rhythm that isn’t quite even enough or maybe just a little too fast for him to quite accept as ordinary. Gokudera doesn’t realize he’s speaking more slowly, his coherency falling to pieces as his thoughts devote themselves to placing recognition of that particular sound, doesn’t realize he’s mid-sentence when the realization hits him like a physical blow.

“ _Yamamoto_ ,” he barks, sitting straight up from the couch where he had been lying to frown at the ceiling. “Are you  _jerking off_?”

He doesn’t think to be embarrassed until he’s spoken. If the awareness had been any slower in coming he might have stayed silent, might have blushed himself into an excuse to hang up on the other boy, but as it is the epiphany is followed so fast by speech he only hears the words as they’re leaving his lips.

“No,” Yamamoto says instantly, but the speed of his response sounds guilty, now, particularly when coupled with the way his breathing catches and the sound of fabric shifting Gokudera can hear.

“You  _are_ ,” Gokudera blurts, shocked and burning hot with embarrassment. “Were you listening to me at all?”

“I wasn’t doing anything!” Yamamoto insists, his voice jumping high with forceful sincerity. “I wasn’t, Gokudera, I promise I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t even paying attention!” Gokudera insists. “Are you able to think of anything for longer than five seconds?”

“I was  _trying_  to pay attention,” Yamamoto says, sounding plaintive and anxious. “But you always sound so good on the phone.”

Gokudera is grateful that there’s no one else in his apartment who could come out and see the alarming shade of crimson he turns. It burns out over his cheeks, sweeps down over his neck and shoulders like an instant sunburn, and when he speaks it’s strangling his voice, tightening his throat until the words come out strained and anxious. “You can’t just  _do_  that without telling someone, Yamamoto, don’t you know  _anything_?” The irritation helps give form to his emotion, lets him fall into the familiar shape of snapping at Yamamoto, until he feels a little less like he’s going to implode from the heat in his veins and just like he’s blushing badly all over his body.

There’s a pause, Gokudera breathing hard and self-righteous and reestablishing his sense of reality around himself. Then Yamamoto takes a breath, says, “What if I did tell you?” and Gokudera flushes into incoherency again.

“What,” he says, but it comes out like a whimper, incoherent and shocked, and he has to try again. “ _What_?”

“Can I if I tell you?” Yamamoto repeats, speaking quick like the syllables are spilling too-fast up his throat. “I’m going to be thinking about you even if you you hang up, can’t you just stay on the phone so I can listen to you?”

Gokudera doesn’t speak for a moment. It’s hard to find the words to answer that, even in the sharp exclamation of shock he wants to give as a response, but mostly it’s because Yamamoto’s words sketched out a perfectly clear mental image of the other boy panting into a pillow and whimpering Gokudera’s name, and it’s difficult to remember how to speak when all the blood in his body is trying to rush to his cock at the same time.

“ _Yamamoto_ ,” Gokudera finally says. He had intended it to be chastising, a sharp burst of sound, but something goes wrong between his intention and the fact, turns the vowels low and the consonants purring, and on the other end of the line Yamamoto makes this weak desperate sound, a moan choked off into a whimper. It’s a  _please_ , even if the word is lost to incoherency, the tension of self-denial audible in the thrum in Yamamoto’s throat, and when Gokudera opens his mouth again what he says is, “Tell me what you’re thinking about,” with all the heated growl of dominance on his tongue.

Yamamoto takes a breath, gasping the inhale in relief, and Gokudera can hear his mattress shift as he rolls over, can imagine him bracing the phone against his ear while he reaches down to his shorts. “You,” he offers immediately, no trace of embarrassment audible in his tone. “You, all the time.”

“Every time?” Gokudera echoes. He’s reaching for the fly of his jeans, doesn’t even have to look down at what he’s doing; he’s staring at the far wall of his apartment, effectively blind for his attention to the sounds on the other side of the line. “You think about me every time you jerk off?”

“Ah,” Yamamoto breathes, the sound trembling in his throat. “Yeah.” It sounds more like relief than an admission, like he’s spilling a secret he’s been desperate to share, and Gokudera shifts his phone, pins it against his shoulder for a moment so he can push his clothes an inch down his hips.

“Since when?” he asks as he frees himself from his boxers, brings a hand back up to reclaim his phone while he licks damp across the palm of his hand.

“The first time,” Yamamoto says, like that’s an answer, and Gokudera rolls his eyes, reaches out to brush his fingers against the hot-swollen head of his cock.

“The first time  _what_?” The sensation is too light, ticklish and prickling and just making the ache at the base of his spine worse, urging him to more faster, but he doesn’t tighten his hold yet.

“Mm.” Yamamoto sounds calmer, the first leading edge of anxiety absent from his voice now. Gokudera can imagine the slow stroke of his hand, the texture of his palm catching pleasant friction against himself. “The first time I met you.”

Gokudera has to pause, stop the drag of his fingertips and frown himself into enough concentration to do the math in reverse. “That was  _months_  ago.” He tips his head in towards the phone, leans in as if it is Yamamoto in truth and he’s moving in closer to the other boy’s shoulder. “Before we kissed.”

“Mm, yeah,” Yamamoto admits, no suggestion of self-consciousness in his tone. He sounds hazy, a little distracted, like he’s answering by rote or is hypnotized into honesty. “You were really distracting.”

“Not like you were doing anything but sleeping in class anyway,” Gokudera snaps, but there’s another rush of heat into his blood, and he can’t resist the urge to move his hand. He wraps his fingers into a loose hold, pulls his hand gently up without the rhythm of intention, yet, just the idle slide of instinct while he listens to Yamamoto’s breathing. “Yamamoto.” A pause, enough time for his cheeks to burn with preemptive embarrassment and Gokudera to clear his throat of awkwardness. “What did you think about?”

“You,” Yamamoto says instantly, then, before Gokudera can growl for more: “Your hair, first, and your eyes.” He sound dreamy, only the faint catch in his breathing enough to make him sound anything more than sleepy. It’s enough, though, that tiny hiccup of sound jolting through Gokudera like electricity every time. “Your hands, after I saw the way you held your bombs.” Slower, the words whispered like a secret. “Your skin.”

Gokudera can’t breathe. This is more than his imagination has ever given him before, the sound of Yamamoto’s voice far less detailed than what his fantasies provide but infinitely more charged with the actual reality than he ever expected it to be. He’s going slick against his fingers, his cock spilling anticipation even though he’s barely touching himself, and when he speaks the rough growl of heat drowns out the tremble of self-consciousness in his blood. “Tell me what you thought about  _doing_.”

“Kissing you, at first,” Yamamoto admits, and even that shivers under Gokudera’s skin, the idea of Yamamoto gasping and trembling and coming just from the thought of kissing him. “Touching you.” Hesitation, a pause that breaks into sound as Yamamoto chokes on a deep inhale. “You touching me.”

“Touching you how?” Gokudera presses. His eyes are shut, his thoughts are hazy, his words are as instinctive now as the rhythm of his hand gliding over the hard heat of his cock. “Did you imagine me jerking you off?” There’s a hiss of air, Yamamoto gasping on a groan, and Gokudera flushes hotter in his grip, has to shudder his exhale before he can speak again. “Did you imagine me  _fucking_ you?”

“ _Ah_ ,” sharp and high and bright like winter sunlight. “Ah, god, Gokudera.”

“I bet you did,” Gokudera says, and he doesn’t know whose voice he’s speaking with, it’s low and rough and spilling off his tongue as fast as his own favorite fantasies are coming to mind. “I bet you thought about me sucking your cock in the back of the classroom.” Another burst of heat under his skin, another breathless gasp from Yamamoto better affirmative than words. “Or me fucking you in the locker room.”

“ _Gokudera_ ,” Yamamoto gasps, sounding shattered and lost. “Gokudera, I--”

“Tell me,” Gokudera insists, control coming as easy to his lips as if it belongs there. “Tell me you fantasized about me, Yamamoto, tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“I.” Yamamoto’s breathing hard, now, Gokudera can hear the near-frantic rush of his breathing and the faint sound of his bed to speak to the desperation of his movements. “I want--” A breath, sharp and shaking, and Gokudera can  _hear_  the end coming, is growling wordless encouragement and threat at once for Yamamoto’s benefit. He doesn’t think he’s going to make it, can hear Yamamoto choke on his inhale and go silent like he’s right at the edge; then “I want you to fuck me,” all in a rush, and “ _Gokudera_ ” soft and broken and trembling with unmistakable pleasure.

“ _Christ_ ,” Gokudera blurts, and he’s moving, he’s twisting his hand and stroking at a frantic pace and he can’t breathe, the tension in his chest is agonizingly tight. His legs are shaking, his hips are coming up off the couch and his shoulders are pressing back, and he can hear Yamamoto gasping and shuddering on the other end of the line and he’s coming before he feels the relief, the spurt of heat at his fingers and against his shirt startling before his entire body shivers itself into relaxation. He doesn’t know what sound he makes -- a drawn-out groan, probably, he hopes, rather than something more telltale.

Not that it matters, his heat-fogged mind offers as he listens to Yamamoto pant himself into coherency again. It’s not like groaning Yamamoto’s name is any more of a giveaway than the fact that they did, after all, just listen to each other jerk off over the phone. The idea makes him flush again, if slowly and far less intensely than the situation deserves; it’s hard to muster the necessary embarrassment when he’s this languid and heavy against the couch.

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto says, turning the name into an endearment through the phone. “You still there?”

“I’m here,” Gokudera admits.

“Oh.” A pause, like Yamamoto’s considering the words. “Do you still want to talk about aliens?”

Gokudera has to laugh. “I want to  _sleep_.” It’s true, surprisingly; he feels warm through-and-through, trembly with pleasure and far more satisfied than he usually manages on his own. “We should go to bed.”

“Mm, yeah.” Yamamoto hesitates, like he always does, like he’s bracing himself for a confession. “Gokudera?”

“I’m  _here_ , idiot.”

“I really, really like you.”

Gokudera can hear Yamamoto’s smile on the words, can imagine the way his eyes are catching bright and glowing with the affection in his voice. It makes him flush, snaps his voice into a growl when he says, “I  _know_  you do, baseball idiot.”

The sound of a laugh, easy and unfazed by the other’s snappish response. “That’s good.” A yawn, drawn-out and whimpering into comfort at the end. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay,” Gokudera allows. “Go to sleep. Idiot.”

“Goodnight, Gokudera.”

“Yeah. ‘Night.” Gokudera is pulling the phone away, snapping is shut as soon as he’s spoken; if he doesn’t they’ll be here all night while Yamamoto drifts closer to sleep and farther from coherency as he keeps stalling for time. He ought to get up, go to rinse clean and change and fall into bed before he loses this uncommon willingness to rest pulling him so slow and heavy with exhaustion. But he stays where he is for a moment, staring at the cover of the phone still pressed against his hand, the pattern of smeared fingerprints from how tightly he was holding it.

“I really like you too,” he says, under his breath so even someone in the room with him couldn’t hear. Then he leaves the phone on the couch, retreats to the bathroom to try to lose the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks under the fall of the water.

With the hot water filling the room with steam, even the mirror isn’t able to see the way he’s smiling to himself.


End file.
